Still Just a Phone Call Away
by Chostani-san128
Summary: AU. Jo is alive, Sam is in the Cage, and instead of living with Lisa, Dean is still hunting. After several months of not hearing from Dean, Jo gets a phone call asking for help. Hurt!Dean.
1. Chapter 1

**So this is a story in which Jo didn't die and Sam is still in the cage after a couple months. Dean never stopped hunting, and is doing so even more intensely now that Sam is gone.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. I simply use the characters for my own enjoyment. **

**Without further ado, onto the story!**

The foam sitting on the top of the clear, amber liquid rose up the sides of the glass as Jo refilled it, pushing it back across the bar towards the man when she was finished. She set the bottle back under the counter as he nodded a quiet thanks in her direction.

She looked up when Ash called across the room to her from where he sat at the far end of the bar, typing something on his computer.

"Hey babe, I'll take another round, if you would," he said, grinning and holding up his empty shot glass.

Jo rolled her eyes, but was given a valid excuse for not catering to him when the cell phone in her jeans pocket vibrated suddenly. "I've gotta take a call," she replied. "You live here. You can damn well come and get your own." Ash gave her an exaggeratedly disappointed look, but he eased off his stool and walked around the bar, grabbing a bottle and refilling his glass. "While you're at it," she said, while taking her phone out of her pocket, "you can watch the bar for a sec."

She walked through the swinging door leading to the back room, glancing down at the caller ID as she flipped the phone open. Dean Winchester. She frowned.

"Hello?"

"Jo?"

"Yeah, this is Jo. You did call my number, after all," she said wryly. "I haven't heard from you in months." Why was he calling her now? "Mom's been worried." She figured that Dean knew her well enough to hear the implied _and so have the rest of us_ at the end of her sentence. Bobby, Ash, Jo herself . . . hell, even Castiel had come calling, wanting to know if they had heard anything from him.

"I know, and I'm sorry." His voice sounded slightly rough, and seemed to lack some of its usual bravado. "Hey, uh . . . if this is a bad time . . ."

"It's as good a time as any, Dean," she replied. "Shut up and tell me what's wrong."

She heard an expelled breath of air on the other end of the line, followed by a muttered, "damn, she's good." Jo was pretty sure she hadn't been meant to hear that. She waited silently.

"Uh, well . . . I was . . . am . . . on a hunt an hour or so away from the Roadhouse. I took care of the fuglies, but uh . . ." Whatever Dean was trying to say, it was hard for him to get it out. Jo estimated she knew about what he was going to say, and she wasn't surprised at his obvious reluctance to say it.

"Yeah?" she prodded.

"It'd be nice if someone . . . came out here to pitch in a little."

She rolled her eyes. Trust Dean to never be willing to admit to needing help.

"Pitch in like how? If they're dead, what do you need?"

Another frustrated sigh. "I can't drive anywhere, okay?"

"So you're saying you need me to come out there and drive you back here?"

". . . yeah, something like that."

"What happened to the Impala?"

"Nothing's wrong with the Impala," he replied quietly. "It's me, alright? I can't drive."

"Oh." Jo was slightly taken aback. It was highly unusual that Dean ever asked for help on a hunt, and almost never did he admit it was because of his own shortcomings. She put two and two together and realized why his voice had sounded weak and breathy. "How bad is it?" she asked quietly.

A moment of silence. "Pretty bad."

"I'll be there as soon as I can," she replied. "Just hang on. Where are you?"

She listened as he gave his location. If she drove fast, she could be there in fifty minutes or so.

"Jo?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

She snorted. "Thank me when I'm there." And she snapped the phone shut.

She wondered if she had been too harsh, then dismissed the idea. Dean Winchester was a man who needed a little of his own medicine sometimes. It was his comfortable mode of communication; he needed someone to treat him exactly as he treated everyone else.

And besides, she had every right to be a little terse with him, she reasoned. He didn't call anyone for months at a time, leaving them all hoping and praying that he was alive; the only proof that he was still kicking were the reports that came from all around the country saying he had ganked this creature or that. And he didn't have Sam around anymore to watch his back. He ought to check in with someone more often. Even Bobby rarely heard from him.

On this note, she turned decisively towards the door. Striding back into the bar, she walked up beside Ash. "You too drunk to drive?" she asked.

"I'm never too drunk to drive," he replied.

"Dean just called. He needs someone to come get him and the Impala. You're gonna drive the Impala back, so you'd better not be too drunk to drive, or you'll have Dean to answer to. You know how he feels about that car. So speak now if you think you can't."

He shook his head. "I ain't even really started drinking yet. I'm game."

"Good. Let's go."

She called across the room to Ellen, who came over. Jo explained the situation to her.

"You be careful, you hear?" Ellen said, giving her a hard look. Jo nodded.

"He said he took care of whatever it was."

Ellen gave her a look that told her exactly what she thought of that. "You be sure to bring that boy back in one piece. I aim to give him an earful."

The drive there was mostly silent, with the two friends riding in contemplative silence, both unwilling to admit that they were worried about Dean and so saying nothing because there was nothing else to be said.

Finally, they pulled up the driveway to the house where Dean had given her directions. She could tell that it was old and dilapidated, but she couldn't see much else in the dark. She knew it was the right place because the Impala was there, parked further up towards the house.

Both Jo and Ash grabbed their guns and flashlights and got out of the car, proceeding quietly towards the house.

Jo took out her cellphone and dialed Dean's number. It rang three times before he picked up.

"Jo?" Her name was barely a whisper on his tongue.

"Dean, where are you?"

"In the basement." His breathing was an audible pant. His condition—whatever it was—had obviously deteriorated in the past hour and a half since she had last talked to him.

"I'll be right there."

They ventured into the house and quickly found a flight of stairs leading down. They led to a dank, musty smelling room built into the foundation of the house. Once at the bottom, Jo shone her flashlight around, looking for signs of Dean.

The beam swept over several dead bodies before it revealed him. He sat slumped against a wall, eyes closed. Even in the dim light, she could tell his face held an unhealthy pallor. Blood spread out from his body, staining his clothes and hands. The distinctive knife lying a few inches away from his hand betrayed exactly what he had been fighting: demons.

Jo couldn't help the wave of shock that washed over her as she saw Dean. He looked so small and vulnerable, something that she was entirely not used to. As she stood there, his eyelids fluttered and she knew he saw her. Apparently, the effort of keeping his eyes open was too much, and they fell shut once again.

Before she realized it, she was across the room and kneeling next to him, hands exploring his body to find the source of the blood.

"Woah there," Dean slurred in a travesty of his normal tone. "Dn't know y' felt that way. Shudn' we at least finda car'r somethin' first?"

"Shut up and tell me where you're injured." She didn't wait for his reply to start unbuttoning his jacket and inspecting his torso.

"Ever'where." He was listing more and more to the side.

His groan of pain was simultaneously uttered with her gasp of surprise when her hand hit a part of his T-shirt that was sopping with blood on his lower abdomen. Wasting no time, Jo peeled the fabric away from his skin, pushing his shirt up above his ribs, revealing ripped and bloody flesh below it. A deep gash spanned across half of his stomach, the edges gaping and jagged.

It was bad. Jo knew it at a first glance, and she shared a significant look with Ash, who was looking uncharacteristically dismal. Honestly, she was surprised that Dean was still conscious—and on the same token, she wasn't at all. He could be incredibly stubborn sometimes.

Trying to keep steady hands and a calm voice, she took out a knife and cut his shirt up the middle of the chest so it wouldn't get in the way. "Ok, Dean, you're gonna . . . gonna be fine." He looked up at her groggily; his eyes drifted every few seconds, but he kept attempting to bring them back to her.

Quickly removing the flannel shirt that she wore over a tanktop, she balled it up and pressed it against the deep gash in his stomach. Dean let out a gasp, his eyes rolling back at the pain. He was on the verge of unconsciousness.

"Come on, Dean. Stay with me here," she urged. After a few moments, he managed to bring his eyes back around to her face, but she doubted he could really see much of anything, anyway.

"S'not . . . s'not the . . . only . . . one . . ." His words were followed by another agonized groan.

"What are you saying? Dean? What are you saying?"

Suddenly, Ash gripped her shoulder and pointed the beam of his flashlight down. "That's what he's saying, Jo."

Her gaze followed the direction of the light and her stomach dropped at what it revealed. "Oh, Ash . . . his leg," she choked out.

Dean's thigh was bent at an awkward angle. She could tell his femur was broken. Jo couldn't imagine how much force it had taken to do that, considering the femur was the most difficult bone in the body to break. But of course, demons had much more force at their command than any human.

"How are we going to move him?" she asked. Dean's eyes were closed once again and he lay still save for his heaving chest.

Ash shook his head, indicating his hesitance with an answer. "Gonna have to stabilize him somehow. And fast. He's lost a lotta blood."

Jo nodded, unable to take her eyes from the injured man's chest, as if willing it to keep moving, keep forcing air into labored lungs.

She managed to pry her gaze away and glanced up at Ash. "Take off your shirt." On any other day, under any other circumstances, she would have gotten some kind of suggestive comment from that, but he merely shucked his T-shirt off and dropped it in her lap. She promptly ripped it into strips and used those to secure her own shirt over the gash in Dean's stomach.

"He needs a hospital," Ash said.

Dean moaned and his eyelids flickered. He seemed to attempt to push himself up, but got absolutely nowhere. Jo placed a hand on his chest, holding him back from any more attempts at moving. "Hey, hey. Don't move, okay?"

"No . . . hosp'tl."

Jo looked back at Ash questioningly. "Do you think you could fix him up?"

Ash looked doubtfully at Dean's broken body for a moment. "Maybe."

"'Maybe' is better than chances of a hospital-induced heart attack," she said.

Ash shrugged. "Closer to the Roadhouse, anyway. If we're gonna do it, let's not waste any more time talking. Guess we're just gonna have to carry him to the car. Lay 'im out in the seat."

Jo winced in anticipation of how this was going to turn out: lots of pain for Dean. But she sighed and stood up, tucking her gun in the waistline of her jeans, snug against the small of her back, and clamped her flashlight under an arm.

She and Ash bent down on either side of Dean, helping him sling one arm around Ash's shoulders and the other around Jo's. Ash supported his upper back and upper thighs, while Jo wrapped an arm around his lower back and under his knees.

The two of them looked at each other across Dean's body. Jo gave a nod.

"Three . . . two . . . one."

The instant the word was out of Ash's mouth, the two hoisted upwards. At the same moment, Dean let out a strangled cry of agony. Jo felt his grip tighten against her shoulder as if he was trying to ground himself in the pain.

Somehow, they managed to carry him up the stairs and outside the house into the cool night air. Jo tried to ignore how it felt like something was stabbing down into her gut every time he cried out. By the time they got to the car, sweat was dripping down Dean's temples. The muscles in his jaw and neck stood out in testament to how hard he was trying to hold back the groans that oozed between his teeth despite his best efforts. But at least he was still awake. For the most part.

Jo could feel the shivers that wracked his body, probably caused by a combination of shock and cold. When they had situated him in the passenger seat of her car (so that she could easily see him while driving) and put it down to complete reclining position, Jo dug a blanket from the trunk and tucked it around him securely, shutting the door and walking around to the driver's side. Ash had already taken the keys to the Impala from Dean, and he got into the man's treasured car and started the engine.

"I'll follow you," he called to Jo. She gave him a thumbs-up, shut her own door, and glanced over at Dean, whose face was turned towards her, chin resting on his shoulder. His eyes were cracked open; in the moonlight, she could barely see slivers of his eyes underneath a layer of eyelashes. Pain etched lines in his face.

She turned the key and the engine purred to life under her.

Dean's lip twitched infinitesimally. "You're here," he breathed.

"Yeah, Dean. I'm here. I've been here." _He can't be losing memory. He can't be._ She did her best to hide the worry his words elicited.

"Just . . . means I c'n thank you now," he finished.

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh."

Putting the car into gear, she backed out of the driveway and took off down the empty road.

"Thank me by staying with me," she said softly, glancing over at him in sympathy.

The hardest part of the night was yet to come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys, sorry this update took an insanely long time. Thanks for everyone that reviewed, favorited, and alerted last chapter, and thanks for sticking with it. I've been pretty busy with schoolwork and kind of unmotivated to write, and this chapter was relatively difficult. So I apologize beforehand for anything that's bad or doesn't make sense, and if you have any thoughts, just leave a review. I also apologize if some of the medical stuff doesn't make sense. I really know nothing about this stuff and my only source is the internet, so bear with me.**

**Disclaimer: I'm pretty sure we all know that I don't own the boys or anything Supernatural.**

**Well, guess I'll shut up now and let you guys read. Enjoy!**

It had taken Jo 50 minutes to get to the old, abandoned house where she had found Dean. It took her 38 to get back to the Roadhouse. At first, she had worried that the fast driving would jostle Dean too much, but then she figured time right now was worth a little discomfort. And then she felt bad for looking at it so objectively; she wasn't the one with a broken leg and a gash in her stomach. Finally, she settled on the fact that going slower wasn't going to make the bumps go away—it would just prolong them. So she drove fast.

Dean was silent for the most part. His hands rested on the balled-up shirt that was tied over his stomach. He seemed to drift in and out of consciousness; sometimes when she glanced over to check on him his eyes were closed and his jaw and neck were slack like the rest of his body, while other times he seemed to be semi-alert and squinting around at the interior of the car.

At one of these times, Jo reached over to rest her palm lightly on his forehead. It was cold and sweaty—not a particularly good sign. His gaze slid over to her, but he didn't move away from her touch. She hoped it was because he didn't want to rather than that he couldn't.

"How're you feeling?" she inquired softly.

One of the tires hit a bump in the road that jostled Dean's leg and his reply was swallowed by a groan as he squeezed his eyes shut. He tried again, his voice gravelly.

"Peachy."

Jo snorted humorlessly. "Right. Why would I ever think you would tell me the truth?"

He twitched a shoulder in a semblance of a shrug. "Dunno." His gaze sloshed towards her again. "Don' rem'ber . . . last time I tol' an'one th' truth. 'Cep' for Sam." Even in the state he was in, raw anguish flashed across his face at the mention of his brother and a stab of nausea drove down into Jo's stomach at the memories it elicited. "No one . . . cares t'ask for it . . . an'more."

It was a testament to how badly Dean was hurting and out of it that he had admitted to as much. His words also kindled a slow, burning anger in the pit of Jo's stomach. No one cared to ask anymore? The hell they didn't. How could he say that? The only reason she hadn't asked him was because she knew Dean didn't like people on his back all the time. She didn't remember how many times she was a tap-of-the-send-button away from calling him to see if he was okay, but had decided not to because she didn't want to bother him.

Jo opened her mouth to tell him exactly what she thought of that, and then shut it. This conversation would have to wait for a later date. She wouldn't feel justified yelling at Dean when he was like this, and besides, he probably wouldn't remember it. She wanted to tell him when he was fully cognizant and able to understand everything she was saying. And it wouldn't hurt if he was well enough to handle a good backhand or two. Just to drive the point home.

He said nothing else for the rest of the drive and Jo listened as his breathing came harsher and with more difficulty. For some reason, after the mention of Sam, Jo couldn't stop the flow of memories that overlaid the road stretching in front of her for portions of time.

She remembered the day Dean had come staggering into the Roadhouse, overflowing with grief that his stubborn will wouldn't allow him to express like a normal person—but everyone who knew him could see right through him. He spent a whole three weeks so drunk that half the time he was unconscious and the other half the time he was either at the bottle or kneeling in front of the toilet. Sometimes both.

Jo distinctly remembered the day when Ellen had decided enough was enough. She had dragged him out of the room he was borrowing, sat him down on a bar stool, moved the bottle of whiskey out of reach, and handed him a gallon of water with strict orders to drink the whole thing before the day was out. Jo remembered the paleness of his skin, the taughtness of it over his bones, the seemingly permanent dark stains under his dead green eyes. The way he could hardly lift the jug without his hands shaking. The way he would take a small gulp, then slump over the bar in abject misery with his head on an arm until Ellen forced him to sit up and take another drink. The way he more often than not lost whatever he had managed to get down within forty-five minutes.

It took him two days to get through the gallon of water. Four before he could keep down anything besides dry toast. A week before he did anything but stare listlessly at the floor. Ten days until he would glance at people for even a few seconds at a time. Twelve days and he gathered up his meager belongings, nodded a tacit, shifty-eyed thanks to Ellen, Jo, Ash, and Bobby, walked out of the Roadhouse, and was gone.

The next time Jo had seen him, the vulnerable man drowning within himself was gone. True to form, Dean had formed his anguish into a whetting stone on which he sharpened himself constantly. He didn't smile anymore, didn't stop to get distracted by a good-looking rack or a seductive glance. His body was harder, stronger. He was more reckless, but he could afford it because his instincts were even better than they had ever been—which was saying a lot. When he looked someone in the eye, the other was always the first to look away, unable to lock gazes with the quiet violence, veiled turbulence, the deadly purpose of a man who has nothing left to lose.

He had shown up for an evening to get some information from Ash—now Jo couldn't remember what it was, and she didn't know why it mattered, but she wished she could recall. She wondered why it should hurt so much that he hadn't said a word to her that day, had only looked at her once, for a second—his face a study of mystery, concealed agony, and a hard devotion to the only purpose he had left in this world (hunting)—and then glanced away. And then he was gone again. That was the last she had seen of him. Until today.

And now here he was, bleeding out in her car. Funny how things happened. Except no one was laughing.

XxXxXxXxXxXx

When they reached the Roadhouse, the parking lot was mostly empty—Ellen must have closed early in anticipation of Dean's desire for privacy if at all possible. Jo wasted no time in climbing out of her car and running around to the passenger side. Ash was only a few steps behind her, for all he had pulled in later. Jo opened the door and Ash started pulling the mostly unconscious Dean up in preparation of getting him out of the car, folding the blanket back off of him.

Dean was reduced to pitiful moans as the two of them levered him out of the car and carried him into the Roadhouse. As they entered the building, the dim light washed over Dean's bloodied form, revealing the shocking patchwork of white, purple, and crimson that was his flesh.

Ellen was waiting for them with all sorts of medical supplies laid out, including an IV stand and bag that they had acquired sometime over the years. Jo guessed that Ash had called her during the drive to tell her what he needed. She even had two tables pushed together on which they could lay Dean out full length so he could be worked on easily.

Once they had him up on the tables, Ellen and Jo worked at taking his jacket off, while Ash went to work sterilizing both himself and the tools he was about to use. At this point, Dean was pretty much unresponsive. To be honest with herself, this worried Jo more than anything. As she pulled the jacket off of his arm, it flopped back to the table lifelessly. She folded the discarded garment up and stuffed it under his head to serve as some sort of pillow.

Ash returned, supplies cleaned and hands and forearms pink from scrubbing. He laid the tools out next to Dean, and started with preparing and inserting an IV into his arm.

"I don't think he's hit forty percent blood loss yet, so I think he'll be ok without a transfusion," Ash told Ellen and Jo quietly. He glanced at Jo. "You okay helping through it?"

Jo nodded, swallowing. She was no stranger to the occasional patch-up job here and there—after all, she had worked and lived at the Roadhouse most of her life—but this was far beyond anything she had ever attempted. But that most certainly did not mean she was going to run away and hide in a corner while Ash stitched Dean back together.

"Good, go wash up."

Jo went to the back room of the bar to scrub her hands and arms, hearing Ash ask Ellen if she could run to the nearest store to pick up a few things. By the time Jo had returned, Ash had begun to clean up the blood around the area of the gash in Dean's stomach so that he could see to stitch it up. It was amazing the random skills the man had picked up from who knows where. Jo didn't know where or how he had acquired them, but she was grateful for them.

"We'll take care of this, first, and then we'll have to set his leg," Ash said, glancing down at the damaged limb with a grimace.

He picked up a needle and threaded it with some sort of synthetic thread. Picking up the needle holder and forceps that were laying in his pile of tools, he began the job. At this point, Dean was unconscious. Jo was almost grateful for this, because it meant he wouldn't feel what was to come.

Ash explained what he was doing to her as he worked. Jo figured it was as much to keep his mind off of the severity of the situation and to keep himself from wondering about what-ifs as it was to inform her of the process.

"I'm using the horizontal matress stitch, because it's a really secure stitch. It'll help stop bleeding and pull together the edges since they're so far apart." His brows were furrowed in concentration. "Will you wipe up that blood?"

Jo did as she was told, and he continued the sutures. Progress was painfully slow, as each suture had to be precise and done carefully. The wound was long and jagged, and some of the skin was missing or unsalvageable, so Ash had to simply do the best he could with what was available. Dean was going to end up with one hell of a scar when this was done. Especially since these sorts of stitches often left "railroad marks" on either side of the scar itself.

It seemed like forever until Ash was securing the last stitch. Finally, he straightened up, arching his back to stretch it out, and rubbed a clean part of his forearm across his eyes tiredly. His hands were coated in blood to the wrists, despite all of Jo's efforts to keep the area clean, although the bleeding had mostly stopped by two-thirds of the way through the stitching.

Ash looked up at Jo. "Can you disinfect that and bandage it?" he asked. She nodded, and he went off to wash up. Jo grabbed a clean medical pad, doused it in disinfectant, and began gently cleansing the wound. When she was done, she grabbed another pad and spread it gently over the wound, layered some gauze over it, and taped it to Dean's sides.

Ash returned and stood beside Jo, surveying the wounded man quietly. "We need to cut off his pants to set his leg." Jo nodded.

The two of them set to work once again. They removed Dean's boots, and Jo pulled out her knife and sliced his jeans open from waistline to hem on each leg, spreading the pieces away from his frame so they laid flat on the table and were out of the way. Finally, he lay there in only his boxers. His leg was swollen, black and blue, and still bent oddly.

Jo looked back up at Dean's face and frowned when she saw how flushed it was between the bruises. Reaching up, she placed her palm gently on his forehead, finding that he was beginning to radiate heat.

"He's got a fever," she said. "I'll get some cloths to cool him off."

Jo went down the hall to the bathroom, which was next to her room. She dug some old washcloths out of the cupboard, then went to the back room behind the bar and found a bucket, which she filled with cold water. Throwing the cloths in the bucket, she brought it back out to where Dean was lying on the tables. She and Ash then commenced with wringing them out and placing them on his forehead and around his neck and shoulders.

When the first cloth touched his neck, Dean stirred, turning his head against the cold, but didn't completely wake up.

He muttered something, and it took Jo a moment to figure out what he was saying. A cold chill ran down her spine when she realized the word he was trying to get out.

"S . . . Sam . . . Sammy . . ."

He twisted a little and Jo pressed his shoulders back to the table gently.

"We should set that leg now," Ash said quietly. Jo nodded. There wasn't any use in waiting.

Ash instructed Jo on where to place her hands—right above the location of the break—while he put his own below it and prepared to set it.

"Just hold it as steady as you can," Ash said. Jo sucked her lip into her mouth, biting down on it in concentration, and then gave a brief nod to signal that she was ready.

Ash began putting pressure on the inner part of Dean's leg, pushing the bone outward. Jo winced at the friction she could feel through her grip on his leg.

A few moments in, Jo felt Dean's muscles go hard as rocks and glanced up to his face. His eyes were open again; his teeth were bared in a fierce snarl, but there was such a strange, pitiful sound from deep in his throat that juxtaposed his countenance.

Ash cursed under his breath and seemed to double his efforts. After what seemed like forever but was probably only a few seconds, Jo felt something grate into place. At the same time, Dean made that horrible noise again, somewhere between a moan and a sob and some un-nameable sound in which his vocal chords were tearing themselves apart.

She let go of the injured limb instantly and moved closer to his head. His eyes were hazy with pain and fever and wandered around the room aimlessly.

Suddenly, his throat convulsed and his chest bucked a little and he gagged weakly. He instinctively turned his head enough so that when the vomiting began in earnest, bile spilled out and pooled beside his head on the table.

She gently lifted up his left shoulder and tried to tilt his torso as far as possible without moving his legs, holding him by wrapping an arm over his chest. He lay there awkwardly, temple resting against the table, unable to do anything but let the spasms run the course of his body, carrying the contents of his stomach out with them.

To Jo, it seemed to go on forever, his gasps for breath growing shorter and more desperate in between bouts. Lines of pain creased his face and when he was finally finished, he squeezed his eyes shut in abject misery. Jo eased him back to his previous position flat on the table and soaked another cloth to wipe his face off with.

"Dean?" His eyes stared blankly off towards the ceiling. "Dean, you with me?" Jo disliked how much her voice shook.

For a moment, he managed to drag his gaze back to her and focus shakily on her face. For a moment, he overcame the fever, pain, and blood loss, and grabbed onto a few last remaining shreds of lucidity. For a moment, he dredged up the famous, Dean Winchester, I-am-invincible-and-nothing-can-touch-me smile and plastered it on his face, although it was threadbare and seemed to fit a bit wrong. For a moment, he spoke.

"Hey, Jo."

And the next moment, just as Jo was about to reply, his face crumpled in pain, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he passed out.


End file.
